by Mark Anthony
The trail was wide enough to permit only double-file riding. In some stretches, underbrush grew thick, nearly up to the path. “I don’t like this,” Tanis told Flint, who nodded. Time and again, the half-elf found his hand returning to the hilt of his sword, and he caressed the intertwined “E” and “K” on the handguard.
Conversation had long since waned among the hunters. The only sounds were the occasional chatter of birds, the creak of saddle leather, and the sniffling of one allergic dwarf. Once Flint sneezed, and Xenoth turned in his saddle and hissed, “Hush!”
“I can help it?” Flint retorted, too softly to be heard by anyone but Tanis.
Suddenly, Tanis saw Tyresian shoot up one arm, and the line halted. One of the trackers, on foot, was standing next to the elf lord, one hand resting on the glossy neck of Tyresian’s stallion and the other hand gesturing up ahead. Word filtered back through the column.
“They’ve found the first spoor!” Gilthanas whispered back to Tanis and Flint. The dwarf clenched the reins so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
“What was it?” Tanis asked.
The answer came filtering down the line like the children’s game Gossip: Five-toed tracks, four toes pointed forward, one back, pressed into the damp ground, and only a few hours old. The creature, no doubt, was out looking for food.
“And here we are,” Flint said grimly, looking to each side and clasping his battle-axe like a talisman. “Lunch.”
“Won’t we hear the tylor coming?” Tanis asked.
“Not necessarily,” Flint answered. “It may be lying in wait.”
The volunteers, faces set, moved into single-file; if the monster crashed out of the underbrush, it would carry away fewer hunters. They pressed on, but every man carried a weapon at the ready. Most of the elves carried short swords.
Midday came and passed unnoticed by the hunters. There was no time for thoughts of food and rest. For a long while they lost the trail, but after an hour of searching, they picked it up again, fresher than before. The hunters cantered their mounts down a narrow, muddy trail, following the tracks. Tanis was forced to duck every few seconds to avoid low-hanging branches.
Suddenly, the horses at the front of the party reared as their riders pulled hard on their reins.
“What is it?” Flint hissed from behind Tanis.
The half-elf rose in his stirrups. The trail widened into an opening. Xenoth was waving his arms as the adviser spoke vehemently to Porthios and Lord Tyresian, who looked impassively ahead as though Xenoth weren’t there.
Gilthanas swiveled in his saddle and answered Flint’s question. “There’s a ravine ahead. Xenoth wants to go around. Tyresian thinks we can jump it.”
“Jump it?” Flint demanded. “On a mule?” He looked aghast.
Tanis edged Belthar around Gilthanas, trotted the animal to the front of the line, ignoring the irritable glances of the other hunters, and hailed Tyresian and Porthios. The three studied the ravine—as deep as two elves were tall, its banks too steep to be negotiated by horse or elf. The remains of a bridge lay in splinters at the bottom of the crevasse.
“It’s not that wide,” Tyresian said.
“We could jump it,” Porthios agreed.
“Most of the horses could jump it, certainly,” Tanis said, “but what’s Flint supposed to do?”
Tyresian looked back down the line, past the elven hunters arrayed in leather and silver, their weapons gleaming in the noon light. At the end of the line, Flint and Fleetfoot looked like the runts of an unusually large litter.
“Leave him,” Tyresian stated, his blue eyes hard. “He’ll find a way around.” Porthios shifted uneasily, started to speak, then fell silent.
“Find a way around?” Tanis snapped. “That ravine stretches out of sight in both directions!”
“No one asked the dwarf to come along,” Tyresian answered. “Let him go back.”
“Alone? With a tylor loose in the forest?”
The elf lord’s handsome features tightened. “You’re under my command on this operation,” Tyresian whispered. “You’re also outclassed as a swordsman and as an archer, half-elf.”
“Lord Tyresian,” Porthios said warningly, and the commander turned and faced the nobles.
“It appears we have come to an impasse,” Tyresian called. “We can cross this ravine and seek out the tylor that has been slaying elves and livestock across this section of Qualinesti. Or we can go back in disgrace.” He took his time surveying the elves, looking each noble full in the face and studying him for a few heartbeats. “Who is willing to continue?”
The group was quiet for a time. Then Gilthanas spurred his roan forward, pounding past Tyresian and Porthios without a look to either side. With a running start, horse and rider jumped gracefully over the ravine, tracing a smooth arc in the air, and then landed with a spray of mud and gravel. Gilthanas wheeled and saluted.
Ulthen, Litanas, Miral, Porthios, and most of the other nobles quickly followed Gilthanas’s lead and waited, milling, on the other side of the ravine. Soon only Tyresian, Tanis, Flint, and Xenoth were left. Tyresian reigned his nervous mount and cast the three an arrogant smile. “Well?”
Xenoth spluttered. “Lord Tyresian, you can’t honestly be thinking of leaving us …”
“Then follow along.” The elf lord’s voice was implacable. “You were the one who wanted to ride Alliance, Xenoth. Certainly you are horseman enough to jump the ravine.”
“But this nag can’t—”
“Try it!” Tyresian slapped Image’s back with the flat of his sword. The horse leaped, Xenoth dropping the reins and clinging to its mane, then balked just feet short of the edge, dumping the Speaker’s elderly adviser unceremoniously on the rocky ground. His silver robes in violent disarray, Xenoth struggled to his feet as Tyresian thundered by on Primordan and almost effortlessly took the ravine, scattering the riders on the other side. Then the elf lord led all but one of the riders on down the trail.
Only Porthios lingered at the ravine. Finally, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “It’s all right! Go back to the palace!” and followed the other volunteers.
“Tanis,” Flint said, “Go with them. Lord Xenoth and I will go back, as he says.”
“What?” squawked the adviser, who had remounted. “And leave me with a dwarf for a protector?”
Flint snorted. “Protector, what?” the dwarf retorted. “I’d sooner protect Fleetfoot here than you.” He patted the gray mule’s neck. “Tanis, Belthar can easily leap that gap. Go on.”
Tanis narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. “We will not separate. Even Xenoth here could be of some use if we meet the tylor.”
The dwarf didn’t meet Xenoth’s eyes. “Don’t count on it,” Flint said. “Unless you’re thinking about using him as bait.” Flint examined the scrawny adviser. “Even then …”
Xenoth wheeled and kicked Image into a canter down the rocky trail toward Qualinost. Flint and Tanis watched, wordlessly. Finally, as Xenoth was vanishing around a bend, Flint shouted, “Don’t get too far ahead! The tylor may cut you off!”
The adviser paused, his mottled brown mount tossing its head and dancing sideways in agitation. Tanis frowned. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Look at the horse. Image isn’t normally nervous.”
The day had begun to turn dark, and an eerie, premature twilight was descending upon the forest. The surrounding woods were nearly impenetrable to the eye. No breeze moved the leaves in the aspens. The squirrels, the chipmunks had vanished; only moments before, they had been skittering through the underbrush and darting playfully along the trails that bordered the ravine.
“Flint …”
The dwarf already had his battle-axe at the ready. “I know, lad. No birds. No animal noises. As though …” He scanned their surroundings and waved at Xenoth to return.
Tanis finished the sentence for him. “As though the animals had all gone aground.”
A low booming echoed upon the air. Flint and Tanis exc
hanged glances. “Thunder?” Tanis asked.
“I hope so,” Flint replied.
The storm hit when Xenoth was halfway back, with thirty or forty paces separating them.
But the storm took the form of a tylor.
“Reorx!” thundered the dwarf. The bushes to the left of Xenoth shuddered, and then, with a force that sent stray leaves and twigs fluttering upon the air, a gray-green blur burst from the undergrowth. The adviser shrieked, and Image crumpled beneath the ferocious beast, the mount’s neck broken with one snap of the gaping maw. The adviser, thrown clear, landed hard on his back. He rolled over slowly, pain on his face, as the monster busied itself by tearing at the dead horse. A look of horror froze on Xenoth’s face when he saw what the tylor was doing to the animal. He lunged to his feet and ran frantically to one side, away from Flint and Tanis, and into the underbrush.
“Xenoth!” Tanis cried. He jumped off Belthar’s back, and Flint slid off Fleetfoot. The two mounts pounded down one of the paths, the mule leading the way by several lengths.
“Xenoth is safer there, lad,” Flint hollered, pulling Tanis behind the moldering trunk of a fallen oak. There was a scant six feet between the tree and the edge of the ravine.
The tylor dragged its horned body fully into the clearing, lifted its plated, pointed head, and roared a challenge. The animal then took a stance on the rocky earth, opened its mouth, and began to chant words of magic. Chief among the words was the name “Xenoth.”
“By the gods!” The half-elf fell back against Flint. “What is it doing?”
Flint didn’t answer the question, but merely muttered, “It’s an intelligent creature.”
“Can we … Can we reason with it?”
Flint grabbed his arm. “I wouldn’t recommend that just now, lad.”
The creature roared again and continued chanting. “Xenothi tibi, Xenothi duodonem, Xenothi viviarandi, toth,” it called, again and again.
“Flint, we’ve got to alert the others,” the half-elf said.
“I think the beast’s already done that for us,” the dwarf commented, and he pointed back toward the other side of the ravine. Tyresian, Miral, and Litanas were clustered at the edge, seemingly at a loss about what to do. Jumping a horses across the gap would land mount and rider only ten feet from the monster, well within the range of its whipping, deadly tail. Already, the creature’s nervous twitching had shredded the underbrush in a crescent behind the animal.
The three-foot horns on the creature’s head were sharp and wicked-looking. Its eyes, half-shut, showed yellow as it chanted, “Xenothi morandibi, Xenothi darme a te vide, toth.” Its clawed front legs stamped on the rocky ground, sending sprays of pebbles flying into the underbrush.
“Reorx!” the dwarf exclaimed again.
Xenoth, his gray eyes terrified and glassy, stepped out of the underbrush into the clearing. He approached the monster, seemingly unable to resist the creature’s call. The chanting intensified. One of the nobles on the far side of the ravine cried out with the horror. Tanis stood. “Xenoth!”
Tyresian shouted from across the ravine, “Half-elf! Stay where you are!” But Tanis leaped over the log and nocked an arrow as he ran. Flint followed, swinging his battle-axe.
The creature, from its tail to its beaklike snout, was nearly sixty feet long, with scaly armor. Tanis kneeled within the huge curve of the beast’s body, aiming for the tylor’s head, off to the half-elf’s right. He released the arrow just as the creature’s thirty-foot tail whistled through the air, to Tanis’s far left. The razor-sharp appendage slashed through an aspen sapling, then slammed into the adviser. Xenoth’s scream died in a gurgle.
The words “Tanis, don’t move!” came crying from the opposite side of the ravine. The half-elf remained where he was but sent another arrow arcing toward the tylor.
Suddenly, hoofbeats crashed on the mud-splattered rocks near Tanis. Miral, crimson tunic vivid against his white and gray mare, hurtled toward the tylor, chanting as he rode. Lightning burst from his fingers and rocketed toward the animal even as the tylor began a new chant.
The ensuing explosion rocked the clearing, knocking Tanis and Flint into a heap. Dazed, they watched the rest of the hunters pour over the ravine and into the clearing.
The tylor’s screams rent the clearing as its claws dug gashes in the rock-hard earth. It struggled to crawl into the underbrush, away from the arrows that now poured toward it from the phalanx of elven nobles. Tanis and Flint could only sit and watch.
Finally, the tylor was dead, scorch marks visible all along one side, arrows cutting into its hide and another arrow protruding from an eye. It lay on its side. Just ten feet away, Miral was raising himself on bent elbows, his face blackened with ash. One hand was bleeding.
Xenoth lay dead, face down on the muddy, rocky ground of the clearing, a crimson stain soaking his silver robe and seeping into the earth. The tylor’s thrashing tail had crushed his chest. Litanas, Xenoth’s assistant, kneeled beside him, shouting something incoherent.
Then suddenly it seemed as though all the elves were staring at Tanis. Even Flint was looking at him with a disbelieving expression. “What is it?” the half-elf asked.
Litanas moved aside, and Tanis saw.
Protruding from Xenoth’s heart was the half-elf’s arrow.
Chapter 18
The Arrow
Tanis looked from face to face, each showing the same accusing stare. Only Flint looked anything but convinced that the half-elf had slain the adviser.
“You saw!” Tanis cried. “You all saw! I shot to the right, toward the body of the beast. Xenoth was to my left when the creature’s tail hit him. How could my arrow have struck him?”
“Yet it did strike him, Tanis,” Porthios said quietly.
Tyresian gestured, and several of the elves moved forward as if to restrain the half-elf. With a bound, Flint, still clutching his battle-axe, thrust himself between Tanis and the approaching captors. He raised the weapon, glared fiercely at the advancing elves, and shouted, “Stop!” Obviously taken aback by the sight of a dwarf outfitted for battle and ready to fight, the nobles stopped.
“We volunteered for this expedition knowing that it could bring our death,” Flint said angrily. “Isn’t that true?”
Ulthen, who with Litanas had been kneeling by Xenoth, stood, his cape splashed with blood. “But we expected the death to come at the jaws of the tylor, Master Fireforge, not by one of our fellow hunters.”
The elves muttered and growled. The adviser had been disliked by many of the courtiers, so there seemed to be little real sadness at his demise, merely shock that it appeared to have come at the hand of another elf.
“Who says Tanis killed him?” the dwarf demanded.
Tyresian sighed loudly. “It was Tanis’s arrow, Master Fireforge. Now, let’s get on …”
But Flint pressed ahead. “Lord Xenoth was dead when the arrow hit him.”
“How do you know?” Tyresian demanded with a sneer. Behind Tyresian, Litanas had withdrawn the yellow and scarlet arrow from Xenoth’s chest and was laying his travel cloak across the body of his former superior. Several other nobles stood apart, poking the tylor’s body, glancing at Tanis and Tyresian, and talking in low voices.
Flint folded his arms across his chest, the axe still clenched in one thick hand. “I saw it.”
“Don’t be ridicu—”
Flint interrupted, raising his voice until it boomed across the clearing. “I was there, Lord Tyresian. You and the others were on the far side of the ravine. I had a clear view. You did not.”
“They argued,” Tyresian said doggedly. “Tanis all but threatened Xenoth at the stables. Who’s to say the half-elf’s human blood didn’t prompt him to avenge himself? And who will trust the word of a dwarf who also happens to be the half-elf’s closest friend?” He turned to Litanas and Ulthen. “Bind his hands. We will return to Qualinost and set the case before the Speaker of the Sun.”
But Miral, supported by Porthio
s and Gilthanas, had finally risen to his feet. He staggered forward, holding his bleeding right hand inside his cloak. His eyes were glazed with pain and fury. “You are wrong, Tyresian.”
Tyresian bristled. “Mage, you forget who is in command here.”
“Being in command does not imbue you with wisdom, Lord Tyresian,” the mage replied.
Flint interjected. “Let’s examine Lord Xenoth’s body. Perhaps that will tell us something.”
After a long pause, during which several elves began to drift over the rocky clearing toward the adviser’s corpse, Tyresian nodded and pushed his way through the crowd around the body. Flint followed. Kneeling, the elf lord gently withdrew the cloak from Xenoth’s face. The adviser’s visage was blank with death and surprisingly free of wounds. His white hair moved with the breeze. He looked as though shortly he would open his blue eyes and speak.
“Farther, Lord Tyresian,” Flint prodded. “Look at his chest.”
The elf lord drew in a deep breath and pulled back the cloak. The tylor’s knifelike tail had caved in and lacerated Xenoth’s chest. Gilthanas gasped and looked ill. Porthios laid a steadying hand on his brother’s arm.
“Where is the arrow?” Flint said.
“Here.” The new voice belonged to Litanas, who sidestepped through the other elves and placed the arrow into Tyresian’s black-gloved palm. Fully one-third of the shaft was stained with blood. Litanas, brown eyes angry, pointed at the shaft. “Lord Xenoth’s blood,” he said.
The dwarf stayed calm. “I’m not disputing that it is Xenoth’s blood,” Flint said.
“Well, it’s definitely Tanis’s arrow,” Tyresian said stubbornly.
“Certainly,” Flint conceded. “I’m not arguing that, either. In fact, I made the arrowhead.”
Tyresian laid the cloak back over Xenoth’s torso and head, and rose. “Then what, dwarf?” he snapped, towering over Flint.
